Revenge of the Beetle Queen

by M. G. Leonard

  Stella Manning frowned.

  “I made the dress for you. The color perfectly complements your hair and skin.”

  “It does,” Stella Manning agreed. “I look amazing.”

  “But if you don’t want it, I will find another actress to wear the dress.” Novak watched Stella Manning struggle with her superstition. Mater looked away. “Ruby Hisolo Jr., perhaps?”

  “No!” Stella Manning spat, her face suddenly spoiled by the ugliness of jealousy. “Not that glorified waitress.”

  “She’s very pretty,” Lucretia Cutter murmured. “The next big thing, I hear.”

  “This dress is simply too beautiful to be unlucky,” Stella Manning declared. “I love it.” She turned around and looked at Lucretia. “I’ll buy it.”

  Lucretia Cutter shook her head. “It’s not for sale, but I would be honored if you’d wear the dress to the Film Awards.”

  “Really? A loan?”

  “The Film Awards is to be my greatest fashion show yet,” Lucretia Cutter replied. “This dress was made to be worn by a true artist, and I would be honored if the great Stella Manning would wear my Lady Macbeth to the awards.”

  Stella Manning pivoted slowly, unable to take her eyes off her reflection.

  “The world will be stunned and awed by you in this dress.” Lucretia Cutter’s voice was a whisper.

  “Yes.” Stella Manning nodded. “You are a master of your art, you really are.”

  “The dress would have very little impact if you weren’t wearing it.” Lucretia Cutter’s gold lips twitched. “The combination will be explosive.”

  Novak thought that Mater looked like a hungry cat about to devour an unsuspecting mouse, and she wondered why the Film Awards were so important. Mater had always refused to dress celebrities for awards ceremonies in the past, saying it devalued her art. And now here she was almost begging an actress to wear her dress to the Film Awards. Novak stared at Lady Macbeth. Was it something to do with the dress?

  “Can I take it with me now?”

  Lucretia Cutter shook her head. “This dress is under embargo. On the morning of the awards, my team will bring it to you, dress you, and chauffeur you to the ceremony.” She signaled to Gerard, who stepped forward. “I don’t want anyone to see it until you step out of the limousine onto the red carpet.”

  Stella Manning looked at Gerard, reluctant to take the dress off, then sighed and turned her back so he could unfasten her. Gerard looked the other way as the actress carefully stepped out of the dress and stood in her lingerie, pulling at the skin on her stomach.

  “Pity the world doesn’t like a baby belly.” She sighed and looked at Mater. “Do you hate yours, too?”

  “Mine?” Lucretia Cutter frowned.

  Stella Manning looked at Novak and then back at Lucretia Cutter, confused.

  “Oh, I see. No. I used a surrogate for Novak,” Mater replied, her face expressionless. “My work is too important to be interrupted by a pregnancy.”

  “Oh!” Stella Manning’s eyes flickered over Novak.

  Novak stared blankly back. She’d always known that she’d been grown in a test tube and delivered by a different mother, although she didn’t know the woman’s name. Gerard called her “The Stork.”

  Stella Manning smiled at her. “Novak is a pretty name.” She picked up her black cashmere sweater and pulled it over her head.

  “I named her after a handbag.” Lucretia Cutter’s voice was flat. “She makes a great accessory, don’t you think?”

  Novak didn’t move a muscle. She knew she was being scrutinized. Gerard had told her she was named after a famous movie star, from the days when the movies were in black and white. He’d shown her pictures of a beautiful platinum-blond woman called Kim Novak.

  “A handbag? Huh!” Stella Manning picked up her jeans, sliding first one leg and then the other into the figure-hugging denim. “Well, Novak. You must be excited about being nominated for a Film Award? It’s a rare honor.”

  Novak nodded.

  “You mustn’t be disappointed if you don’t win. It’s an amazing achievement just to get nominated.”

  Novak nodded again.

  Stella Manning gave her a look tinged with pity and turned back to Lucretia Cutter, who was watching Gerard as he gently placed Lady Macbeth in its wardrobe box. “I’m grateful you thought of me for one of your dresses, Lucretia.” She slipped on her leather jacket and picked up her sunglasses from the sideboard. “I’m looking forward to the awards this year.”

  “Me too,” Lucretia Cutter said, her face splitting with an alarming smile. “It’s going to be the most memorable awards in the history of the academy.”

  As Stella Manning turned to the mirrors to put on her sunglasses, the door opened and a tall, thin man with sandy hair and very blue eyes entered the room.

  “Ah, come in, my dear.” Lucretia Cutter stepped forward.

  Novak cried out and jumped to her feet before she could stop herself.

  Standing in front of her was Darkus’s dad. He’d gotten a haircut and the beard was gone, but it was definitely him. She could see the scars on his neck, the same scars she had on her own body, scars from the assassin bugs.

  All the adults were staring at her.

  “What is it?” Lucretia Cutter’s voice cracked like a whip, a penciled eyebrow raised above her sunglasses.

  Novak sat back down and fixed her eyes on the floor. “I’m sorry, Mater. I … I didn’t realize you knew him. I thought he was an intruder.”

  “Stupid child.” Lucretia Cutter laughed. “Bartholomew, allow me to introduce Stella Manning, the greatest actress of our time.”

  Novak watched, her stomach knotting itself up, as Darkus’s dad took Stella Manning’s outstretched hand, bent down, and kissed it. “Of course,” he said. “It’s a great honor to meet you.”

  Novak studied his face for signs of grief and pain, but saw none. Her body was shaking with anger. Didn’t he care about what had happened to Darkus? Darkus had risked everything to save him. Why was he smiling at her mother in that way?

  Novak fizzed with fear and outrage: Darkus’s own father had betrayed him.

  She watched her mother wrap an arm around Darkus’s dad’s waist and kiss his cheek. “Stella, this is one of my oldest and dearest friends, Bartholomew Cuttle. After more than a decade apart, we’re working together again, on something really big.”

  Darkus poked his head between the front seats of the car, and Virginia grinned at the green tiger beetles sitting on his head. Uncle Max changed into third gear and the car bunny-hopped through the streets of Camden toward Regent’s Park and Towering Heights.

  “What are you going to say to your dad?” Virginia asked. “He might not be happy to see us.”

  “I don’t know.” Darkus frowned, thinking back to the argument they’d had that evening. “I need to make him see that he’s in danger.” He shrugged. “I don’t care if he shouts at me.”

  “I just wish he’d talked to me before he ran off trying to be a hero,” Uncle Max said. “We’re all on the same side, for goodness’ sake.”

  “Are we?” Virginia asked. “How can we know that? We don’t know what Darkus’s dad is planning to do.”

  Darkus opened his mouth to protest, to say that they were all fighting for the same thing, but he had to admit his dad was behaving strangely. What if he wanted to be with Lucretia Cutter? What if her research into beetles was too tempting for him to resist? What if Darkus was in the way, and that was why Dad had wanted Uncle Max to take him to Wales?

  The car was thick with an uncomfortable silence.

  Darkus reached up and lifted Baxter onto his palm, looking into his friend’s shining eyes. He smiled at the rhinoceros beetle, who opened his mouth, smiling in reply. At least with Dad gone, there’d be no more talk of him giving up Baxter. He looked down at the beetles lined up on either side of him on the backseat: a compact battalion of luminous-spotted fire beetles to combat darkness, mottled Hercules beetles for th
eir strength, bombardiers for their talent with firing acid, and titan beetles, which had a vicious bite. They were experienced fighters now; Darkus had been training with them ever since the Battle of Nelson Parade.

  He stroked Baxter’s elytra. “When we send the beetles into Towering Heights,” he said, “we should get them to check the cells for Spencer Crips.”

  “That’s a good idea!” Virginia nodded. “And we need to keep our eyes peeled for yellow ladybugs.”

  “Yellow ladybugs?” Uncle Max said. “There was a very large one in the front room yesterday.”

  Virginia’s and Darkus’s heads snapped around.

  “I’m afraid to say”—Uncle Max lowered his voice to an exaggerated whisper—“I accidentally squashed it with the sole of my shoe!”

  Virginia burst out laughing as Uncle Max waggled his eyebrows.

  “I’ll not have Lucretia Cutter’s spies in my house.”

  Despite the late hour, Camden Town was alive with staggering revelers. The closer they got to Towering Heights, the more nervous Darkus felt. He hadn’t returned to the big white house since they’d busted his dad out of Lucretia Cutter’s cell. He shook his head; he still couldn’t believe that Dad would voluntarily walk back into that house. Darkus felt his nails cutting into his palms and realized he was clenching his fists.

  He looked out of the window; the familiar parkland of London Zoo was on their left. Uncle Max pulled over. “I don’t want to get any closer, in case the car is recognized,” he said over his shoulder.

  Darkus nodded. The old mint-green Renault 4 was pretty memorable.

  They cautiously got out of the car, the beetles following Darkus like a scuttling shadow. As they got close to the house, Darkus became aware his heart was thumping like a bass drum. The familiar brick wall rose up in front of them, behind it the tall copper-beech hedge.

  “Can you get up and over?” Darkus whispered to Uncle Max.

  “Don’t worry about me, lad.” Uncle Max reached up and jumped, pulling himself up and over the wall. Darkus heard a thud as he landed safely on the other side.

  Virginia bent her knees, clasping her hands together, offering him a step up. Darkus slipped his foot into her hands, and in a second was sitting on top of the wall, reaching down to grab Virginia’s hands and pulling her up to sit beside him. The beetles scurried up the wall and over it as the children dropped to the ground in unison. Darkus and Virginia wriggled through the copper-beech hedge, their arms over their faces to avoid getting scratched.

  Uncle Max was standing on the edge of the giant paved chessboard patio. “The whole house is dark,” he whispered.

  “It’s the middle of the night,” Darkus replied.

  “There are no cars in her driveway.” Uncle Max pointed. “And there’s a large padlock on the garage door. I think the house is empty.”

  Darkus looked at each of the windows, trying to detect a source of light, but there was nothing. All the ground-floor window shutters were closed. He ran lightly across the patio and pushed his face up against the glass, cupping his hands around his eyes. Peering between the slats of the shutters, he could make out a giant white shape. He pulled away and frowned.

  “The furniture is covered in sheets.” He looked at Uncle Max.

  Virginia ran straight up to the black front door. She fell to her knees and pushed her fingers into the letterbox, lifting the flap and peering through. “It’s empty,” she hissed.

  “The house is closed up,” Uncle Max said. “There’s no one home.”

  “It can’t be.” Darkus’s voice faltered. “Where’s Dad?”

  Uncle Max walked over to Virginia and hammered the brass scarab knocker down onto the door. Darkus and Virginia jumped. “What are you doing?” Virginia stepped back, her eyes wide.

  “I’m seeing if there’s anyone in,” Uncle Max replied.

  Darkus held his breath, staring at the door, but no one came. His shoulders dropped as he started breathing again.

  “Shall we look around the back?” Virginia suggested, becoming braver now she knew there was no one home. “We might find a clue.”

  Darkus nodded, and they crept around the side of the building.

  “Where did everybody go?” Darkus whispered. “Where’s Novak?”

  “This isn’t the only building Lucretia Cutter owns, Darkus,” Uncle Max replied. “She could be anywhere.”

  “If Dad came here and found the house closed up, he might have gone back home. He could be there right now, wondering where we are,” Darkus said hopefully.

  “There’s the servants’ entrance.” Virginia strode across the white gravel of the driveway, to the blue door, and pushed her ear against it. As she did, the door swung open and Virginia stumbled into the skirts of a woman, who screamed.

  Virginia flew backward, yelling, as Uncle Max and Darkus rushed forward.

  The woman in the house saw Darkus and screamed even louder.

  Uncle Max held his hands up. “It’s okay! It’s okay! We mean no harm.”

  “It’s you! The … the beetle boy,” the woman gasped, shock written across her face. “You’re dead! She shot you! Novak said!”

  “Hello, Millie.” Darkus smiled. “She did shoot me, but I’m not dead.”

  “A thousand apologies, my good lady.” Uncle Max gave a courteous bow. “We didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Millie looked crossly at Uncle Max. “Was it you doing that terrible knocking?”

  “Ah yes, sorry.” Uncle Max cleared his throat. “I thought no one was in. My apologies if I woke you.”

  “You gave me a terrible fright,” Millie said, her hand on her heart as she tried to calm herself. She looked at Darkus. “If you’re looking for the little miss, she’s gone. They’re all gone, to America, for the Film Awards.”

  “Millie, did a man come here this evening?” Darkus asked. “Clean-shaven, short wavy hair, sandy-colored with gray bits. He has blue eyes …”

  “There were these two horrible men here, not two hours ago—one giant bald man and one skinny half-crazed creature. They were banging and knocking, insisting they had an appointment to see Madame Cutter, that she owed them money.”

  Virginia grabbed Darkus’s arm. “Humphrey and Pickering!” she hissed.

  “They wouldn’t believe me when I said she’d gone away. I had to shut the door on them, and they smashed a window! They only went away when I told them I’d called the police.” Millie put her hand over her heart again. “When you started knocking, I thought you were them, come back to rob the place.”

  “I can assure you, we have no such intentions. My name is Maximilian Cuttle. We are looking for my brother.”

  “Oh no!” Millie’s hands flew up to her cheeks. “I forgot!” She thrust a hand into her white apron and pulled out a lavender envelope. “Are you the Maximilian Cuttle who lives on Nelson Parade?”

  “Why yes, I am.” Uncle Max nodded.

  “Then this is for you. I’m so sorry, I was meant to bring it to you earlier this evening, but when those two men came knocking and shouting, I forgot all about it.”

  “What is it?” Darkus asked as Uncle Max tore open the envelope.

  “Thank goodness you came.” Millie shook her head. “I’d have felt terrible forgetting a thing like that. I promised little Novak that I’d get the letter to you as soon as I could.”

  “Darkus.” Uncle Max’s head snapped up, his voice urgent. “Lucretia Cutter knows where the beetles are. She’s going to burn them.”

  Darkus stumbled backward, his mouth open in horror, tears pricking his eyes. “We have to get back! We have to save them!”

  “Bertolt’s there!” Virginia exclaimed, fear in her eyes.

  And then they were running, footsteps on gravel, back up the driveway to the car and Nelson Parade.

  Bertolt looked up from the newspaper. Newton was darting around his head, manically flickering and flashing, dive-bombing his face.

  “What is it, Newton?”

  He
folded up the newspaper and put it down on his workbench. He’d been reading about Lucretia Cutter’s sudden decision to attend the Film Awards. The newspaper confirmed what he’d thought, that in the past Lucretia Cutter had condemned awards ceremonies, refused to attend them because they were vulgar, and she’d even singled out the Film Awards as particularly vacuous. The article’s author didn’t know why she’d made such a dramatic U-turn, not only attending the awards but dressing all the actresses nominated for Best Actress.

  Bertolt wondered if Lucretia Cutter had changed her mind for Novak, but the way Darkus had described her brutal treatment of her daughter made that seem unlikely. She didn’t need publicity, either; she was rarely out of the papers. Bertolt scratched his forehead. He couldn’t think of one good reason why Lucretia Cutter would want to be a part of the movie world. Unless, of course, she didn’t … but then why would she be going to the awards?

  Newton zoomed in front of his face and bumped off his glasses.

  “I’m sorry.” Bertolt sniffed. “What’s the matter?” An acrid smell filled his sinuses. “Newton, can you smell burning?”

  Newton hovered in front of Bertolt’s face, flickering and flashing.

  “FIRE?!” Bertolt cried, reading the Morse code.

  He ran to the door, yanked it open, and scrambled along the main tunnel to the sycamore tree. He had to get out of Furniture Forest. If it caught light, he’d be roasted alive!

  He burst out from underneath the foldaway table and stopped dead. The back door of the Emporium was hanging open, and a fountain of flames shot out of the manhole.

  “NO!” he screamed, running to the doorway, a terrible image in his mind of the beetles being burnt alive in their teacups. Tears streamed down his face. The smoke was making him cough, and a wave of heat pushed him back.

  Terrified beetles flew and ran from the doorway, fluttering in the air, confused coleoptera bashing into each other and then sinking to the ground as their wings melted in the heat of the fire.

  “TO ME! TO ME!” Bertolt’s high voice cried. “Beetles, fly to me!” He struggled forward, falling to his knees and scooping up as many as he could, putting them onto his shoulders as more beetles landed in his hair. A line of them clambered up his legs.